"Why is literature always at the end of words?"
The poets know
For starters
That language is a lie
Yet the poor philosopher-kings
Will chase tautologies
To their distended ends
Until the words withdraw at sunrise
Like any would-be army
Yet leave the void so near
At the edge of their campfire
They can't help but mark it down
A tragedy of being
The first object that was named
Was the death of truth
And the rest of the string
Mere statistics
(Damn lies)
But we love to lie
To ourselves
Other people
That the world is fixed
Our souls intact
Our senses nearly accurate
Our minds are ensconced in words
Because every other thought's
From somewhere other
How familiar they become
These dopplegangers
I call thee crow and it is almost as though
I defeated you
And your wordless call
That is far above the ceiling
Of philosophy
That's something that we don't want to see
But words will flatter us
Echo as if silent
As long as we don't ask them what they are
Better to think of distant kings
Than parasites
— For we love to be deceived
By etymologies
Double meanings
Oblique phrases
Ambiguous participles
The violence of grammar
It is part of who we pretend we are
Carved-out thought
Instead of nothing
What words are
When we're not around
